


Le Dernier

by Ukthxbye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sherlolly, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Awesome Molly Hooper, Christmas Party, Dancing, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, It's For a Case, Jealous Sherlock, Love Confessions, Lying Sherlock, Mistletoe, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 23:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ukthxbye/pseuds/Ukthxbye
Summary: Every time Molly Hooper says yes to faking a relationship with Sherlock for a case, it gets more complicated. She takes this one telling herself it will be the last time. Sherlock knows of the complications as well as her but he doesn't want to face the changes that happened over time.





	Le Dernier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BellatrixLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixLives/gifts).



> For Sherlolly Secret Santa 2018. Fake dating for a case and angst requested by BellatrixLives
> 
> Thanks to Mouse 9 for reading and helping me move forward with the story
> 
> Thank you to Moffat and Gatiss for giving us Molly and letting her become central to the new Sherlock Holmes canon. 
> 
> title is french for "The Last"

Everything arranged and planned to the moment. Clothing specific. A luxurious honey blonde human hair wig for her and horn-rimmed glasses for him with a fake streak of silver in the slicked back coif. Back-story solid enough to make small talk with but with nothing too personal or revealing to encourage deeper questions.

 

Sherlock stepped into her bedroom, not knocking as if he listened until she was at the point of help needed for her dress zipper. _We’ve done this so many times, its instinct now,_ they both pondered, though with different emotions.

 

 _Last time. After this I am not putting myself through it,_ Molly promised to herself.

 

Nimbly his fingers pulled the zipper up, never touching her even through the thin lace fabric on the back. If he wanted to, even if she wanted him to, he kept that perfect control instead.  When he backed up, she breathed out again.

 

“Why not John or anyone else?” She broke the thick silence, and she smoothed her dress as she pivoted to question him.

 

“John is publicly dating a woman, and he is a terrible actor. Much better for the more bombastic and violent casework.”

 

“Oh, so but it’s ok to complicate it for me?”

 

She thought it and it spilled out her lips as she turned again to check her hair in the mirror. She caught her breath instead of the words.

 

“You agreed a week ago that this would be entertaining as always and you are the best to carry forth this setup,” he frowned, adjusting his glasses, taking them off to clean them and putting them back on.

 

“Because I look good in a dress?” she smirked, picking a stray cat hair off the black velvet clinging tightly to her hips.

 

Small gulp. She watched for it in his throat and she discerned the advantage she wanted with her words.

 

“For a purpose, yes. For me… for a case you understand the gravity and nuance needed. And you can follow direction and instruction. Seemingly a basic skill but shockingly lacking in most.”

 

He spied her eyes narrow and if he could read her thoughts he would be correct about her irritation. He knows the “playing a couple” ruse is worming its way into something accustomed but calls to mind unanswered questions. The dress added to the effect, velvet clinging to every curve and the lace on top teasing glimpses of the skin beneath it. But he chose the surface questions first, instead of that more unwieldy elephant in the room.

 

“Is adjustment to the plan needed? I can address all concerns apart from indifference.If you do not want to go, Molly, I will find alternate means to the end.” He spoke softly, without apparent emotion, except for a fall in his voice with the last words.

 

Something in his tone always sounded like begging to her now. It hid in exasperated tones. She caught it every time. Like a subconscious whisper, she saw it creep behind his jawline and in the shift in his eyes as he stared at her, trying to read her much the same.

 

And she let it capture her heart every time. Hook and line. She hated to know if it was practiced or unconscious. Both truths overwhelming.

 

She sighed through her nose and looked down at the floor, chin in chest. Air held in his lungs anticipating her response. She lifted her head with a slight smile, “No, the plan’s made and it's a good one. We rehearsed and we are too good at this to miss the performance. Let’s not keep the audience waiting.”

 

He shifted closer to her suddenly, nearer than she bargained for. Leaning back enough to search her face but a moment, he dropped his lips to her cheek. Eyes flutter closed before she caught herself and his lips on her right cheek more a caress than a kiss. He is back upright before she filled her lungs again.

 

“Thank you, as always, Molly,” he smiled faintly. His own confidence eroding as his thought lingered to a choice he considers but never enacts.

 

She swallowed hard, with an affected grin, ignoring the tingle in her cheek that matches the flush,  “Its Amelia, remember?”

 

“Ah... yes... long-suffering fiance of Dr Aaron Turner,” he added, taking on a high pitch than his usual voice as he put his arms behind his back.

 

“You really should’ve taken me with you to that conference to Zurich, you know?” she said with a most exaggerated pout.

 

“Darling please, this is a Christmas party we will discuss this later in private, we might draw an audience” He frowned, equally exaggerated, pointing dramatically at Toby who wandered past them and jumped on the bed.

 

She stifled a giggle, and his chest relaxed. He laughed lightly, “Come now, justice calls us to our stage.”

 

She grabbed her clutch on the dresser and when she turned back, saw his raised arm offered.

 

She hesitated, contemplating as once again steeling herself for their portrayal as a couple with all the small gestures. She wrapped her arm around his, placing her hand steady on his bicep tight underneath the tuxedo jacket. She leaned into him as they walked to her door without a word.  

 

“Coat,” he said as they paused, voice low again. He released her arm carefully as he reached for the black mink coat, borrowed for the case, helping her slip it on. Hesitant to wear it, he remembered, but he convinced her as he always did. Lost in his thoughts he became unaware as his hands slipped down from her shoulders, travelling down her arms. The fur in its billowing warmth like a balm on his racing mind, a tactile grounding. Her shudder a cool shock to his system and he dropped his hands from her suddenly.

 

She cocked her head to the side just enough to watch him as he put on a plain dark wool coat and adjusted a white scarf around his neck, seemingly still lost in thought. She pondered why the fur caused him to caress down her arms. Only moments before he dare not let a millimetre of skin touch her back as he zipped her up. They weren’t at the party. There was no reason for such a gesture. Wholly a new development. _Why must everything mean something?_ Well, at least to her. She reminded herself this is the reason this is the last time. She can’t keep acting and she knew it _. But I can take it all once more and I will play it to the cheap seats._

 

He sniffed, and reached for the door, “We’ll go over the plan once more on the way there.”

 

“Yes darling,” she smirked, blowing a little kiss and strode out toward the car without looking back, giving her best sway of her hips that heels afforded. His jaw went slack as he slowly moved out the door and pulled it to behind him.

 

On the way there the officer drove silently after a brief acknowledgement of his part in the plan. Sherlock discussed the particulars of alternate plans with rapid suggestions but assured he would handle any situation and for her to follow his lead.

 

Never condescending, and yet she inferred he never trusted her to fulfil the plan without extra instruction. A misguided assumption; the instruction existed for himself. Tactics, like a warm cup of tea, settle in his stomach and quiet it. His eyes worked to betray him, examining every curve each time illuminated by the streetlights as she shifted in the seat. They drank their fill with each beam that travel across the window. In the past he prohibited such baser ruminations. He permitted them now in controlled trials, noting when his mind stretched beyond the present to something akin to fantasy and then he promptly cut off the process. But a laziness settled over his thoughts tonight and his gaze lingered as his lips spoke of more practical matters.

 

“So considering he is a financial criminal, I can assume that the chance of violence minimal?” she asked once Sherlock slowed his words.

 

He studied her face to see if it indicated worry but he saw the same flat look she held the entire time he talked. Perhaps she is getting accustomed to this in a manner that is questionable, he mused to himself.

 

“Yes, minimal. He will meet with financier Roger Campbell. Dubious as he is, I doubt there will be any violence.”

 

“Scotland Yard has you covered, ma’am,” the officer assured and returned to his quiet driving.

 

Molly smiled in his direction and looked back out the window. Christmas lights blurred as they passed shops and crowds. She leaned her chin on hand, elbow steady on the door armrest as she stared out. Her other hand rested on the seat and when his suddenly covered it with warmth, her eyes squeezed shut as she bit her lip.

 

“You remember where we will begin the argument?” he asked softly, voice catching in his throat for a moment.

 

She repeated the plan, ignoring a catch in her own throat. “The tree, the centrepiece of the room. It will signal officers who will quietly come up to the suspect and finish the arrest. We will be the distraction in case others try to intervene and to keep the party running smoothly.”

 

His fingers rubbed hers, his thumb fidgeting with the stones on the engagement ring she always wore for these things. The sensation fogged her thoughts.

 

Time to get into character, and to reassure her, so he finds his hand on hers. His logic never fails to comfort him, but its thin ice now. A veil he feared, no, knew she peered through.

 

“Correct. Yes, it was the only way the host would agree to let us do this, though we could have crashed it. But my brother insisted due to prime minister family being present and friends with the host,” he moaned in exasperation to change the mood.

 

A slight smile and nod her only response.

 

One last check to her makeup as she moved her hand and reached into her clutch. Grabbing a mirror compact and her lipstick,  she leaned to the window to use street lamp light. Touching up her red lipstick, a naughty thought ran across the front of her mind. _Perhaps I’ll have to sneak a kiss to that glorious neck of his, leave my mark. Shame to wear this lipstick and not leave a mark somewhere._

 

He fixated on those lips enhanced to an effect by the red, and his chest tightened as the most wicked grin crept across them. He lost his focus, contemplating what her thought might have been, when the driver suddenly stopped. He caught himself before pitching too far forward, striking his hand against the driver’s seat.

 

“Sorry mate! but I told ya to buckle up.”

 

Molly smirked at Sherlock who settled back in his seat.

 

“Almost there,” he sighed pulling up his mobile, working to add the planned effect to his voice for his character.

 

“Oh yes darling,” she said in false cheer. They held each other gaze for a moment as the car slowed and stopped, both reaching internally for something similar. But with a blink, he looked to the door and the officer approaching to open it. Her eyes turned as it opened, and she took the offered hand which she dropped soon as her feet steadied on the ground.

 

A shiver as the night air found her bare legs timed well to Sherlock's hand on the small of her back. And they were no longer to be themselves until the job was done.

 

Champagne on trays caught her eye first as a handsome server moved to pass her. She stopped him, catching his eye with a smile. She greedily grabbed one flute and downed it in two gulps. The dry burn tingled and without a word she placed the glass on the tray and got a second glass to sip with a last lingering looking at the server as he carried on with a smile of his own.

 

Sherlock stood stiff, eyes never leaving her face as he studied her actions. But he knew the words planned. Thrown but for a moment by how early she pushed the script.

 

“Baby girl, let’s go easy on booze tonight,” Sherlock said loud enough for anyone close by to hear, fully in form of Dr Aaron Turner in a voice that already hit the wrong nerves for Molly.  

 

She held his gaze with a grin, but through gritted teeth said “Don’t call me baby.” She walked backwards away from him for a moment, savoring that small gulp before turning with a flip of her hair.

 

The practiced dumb grin for Dr Turner crossed his lip but inside, he grasped the coldness in her words. He shook it off, finding his own glass of champagne to sip slowly.

 

They both walked the room, accessing, noting where the undercover officers are. Accustomed to such events as this now, she hardly noted the expensive decorations and marble fixtures around the location. She examined for exits the same as him. He spied the suspect near a table to his left. Molly would pull the financier from the other side of the room; she already found him and worked that side of the area. His eyes cut to the right spying her slide her way through a crowd. But being blonde and thin and it appeared on her third glass of champagne, he knew Mr Campbell would soon find the opportunity enticing enough. _Men could_ be so easily swayed, they both thought.

 

He moved forward with his part, making small chat with offensively boring people until the suspect found his way into a loud group Sherlock amused with a false story about a patient. Nothing like laughing at the expense of the mentally ill, he sneered internally. But he had no intentions of making Turner likable but perhaps entertaining at least.

 

Tonight his eyes shift across the room increasingly often, seeking her form through the crowd. It would be in character, no? No, he cannot lie to himself. This was not the act of a romantically cold doctor but the behaviour of a too attached detective and it gnarled inside him. _Why now?_  Her flirting with suspects as required improved greatly under his instruction, and her reading of others astute. But that is why he asked for her help, was it not? She could see him like no one else. And he realised that skill needed only small guidance to assist him in his own work. He stared in her direction through a shifting crowd, spying as her hand landed on the arm of the other suspect, second nature to her. Just enough to draw him in but promise nothing. Pride and shame mingled at once in his chest and Sherlock took a deep swig of his champagne to hide the expression he feared crept into his countenance.

 

“Sorry, didn’t catch your name,” the suspect asked as the jokes died down, offering his hand to Sherlock.

 

Not nearly as a tall as Sherlock, both men locked stares for a moment sizing the other up. But Sherlock saw him twitch first.

 

“Turner, Dr Aaron Turner,” he said in the affected voice taking the hand and turning his attention back to the suspect. “Psychiatry”

 

“Ah. fascinating work,” the man said with a slight grin.

 

“And…” Sherlock pressed for the suspect’s name, still shaking his hand until he got the introduction he wanted.

 

“Martin Bailer. Pleased to meet you Dr Turner.”

 

With a quick smile, Sherlock dropped his grip and turned his attention back across the room.

 

He lost Molly in the crowd for the moment. His eyes scanned haphazardly, and he jumped internally when her small hand slipped under his arm, wrapping her fingers tight around his biceps.

 

“Looking for me, darling?” She slid the side of her body up next to his, leaning in as if for a kiss. But he knew his role well, and he offered her only a raised eyebrow and pat to her hand.

 

“Yes, dear. Let me introduce you to Martin Bailer,” Sherlock gestured to both, "Mr Bailer, my fiance Amelia Barnes.”

 

Bailer offered a hand, and she shook it with just the right amount of weakness Sherlock taught her.

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Bailer” _Give him your eyes, hold them with the slight upturn smile with open shoulders._

Bailer’s visual inspection travelled down her body without decency and she swallowed nervously.

 

“So you in psychiatry as well?” he asked, locking eyes with her over his glass.

 

She giggled, biting her lip nervously, “Oh no. Receptionist,”

 

His eyes travelled down once more and her stomach turned. She shrunk back and Sherlock shifted forward. Bailer twice had let his eyes stray. By Sherlock’s script, he should be indifferent. That’s what they rehearsed and Turner wouldn’t protect her. Yet he found his frame shielding hers suddenly.

 

Molly’s, not Amelia’s eyes, looked for a hint of the next action to take as she studied Sherlock’s reactions. She felt fear and disgust in the pit of her stomach at the suspect Bailer. Sherlock sensed it and watched him practically undress her with his eyes. But why the only question she could muster until an obviously disappointed Roger Campbell approached with two glasses of champagne. For all that he was, Campbell only took a cursory look over her form and kept his eyes up when she talked to him earlier. She couldn't deny he had a charm to him. Not her type, all the muscle and height of being the former football centre-back he was, but she could appreciate the aesthetic in a tuxedo. Sherlock may have six inches on her even in her heels but Campbell added at least four more to the number. He saddled up near her and she released Sherlock’s arm.

 

Sherlock turned his eyes up slightly to catch Campbell’s and he did not have to feign the irritation.

 

“Let’s dance... unless--” He smirked at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, Aaron isn’t a dancer at all and I am starving for a good dance partner. Lead the way,” she grinned at Campbell and out of the side of her mouth said to Sherlock,  “Don’t run off dear. We’ll be back.”

 

Sherlock turned his head to bluff disinterest and kept his face flat. But he sensed every nerve tingle down his arms into his fingers and the fire burned its way back into his chest.

 

Dancing was not in the plan, at least not with Campbell. She never faltered before, her eyes and actions never led astray from the mission, he brooded.

 

Bailer gave him a knowing look, temporarily reminding Sherlock of John Watson. He resisted the compulsion to punch Bailer in the mouth as he stayed on task. Bailer turned his attentions to another in the gathered party group and Sherlock breathed out in relief to not maintain the focus on him.

 

Molly knew he would stare at her the whole time. _To the cheap seats as I promised,_ she laughed to herself but the weariness of the thought hit her. She swallowed it down and plastered a grin for Campbell as he led her to the dance floor and put a hand on her hip. He led well, and she followed even better. Her training... did she need to be reminded of that now? Of Sherlock’s instruction on dancing and those days, twirling with care on his rug at 221b. Campbell’s grasp less elegant, less deliberate and she hated herself for missing something that existed only for cases. Though this was too, right? Her nerve fumbling with tangled memories and she stepped on Campbell’s foot.

 

She mouthed an apology, and he lowered his head to her ear. “Oh, you’ll have to do a lot more than that to hurt me. But I wouldn’t mind if you tried.” He straightened back up with a wicked grin and she saw out of the corner of her eye the steady glare of Sherlock on them. She looked up at Campbell with hooded eyes, lowering her voice just the right pitch, “Well, I’ve always had a thing for bad boys.”

 

He pulled her closer and she let him, knowing Sherlock watched them at a distance. Supposed to bring Campbell over, she delayed and changed the plan. And she’ll do the original task in her own time and way. Perchance she wasn’t as great at this as she thought. That it got so messy, so quick. One dance. One that seemed real even if it wasn’t.

 

The music ended and Campbell’s face fell as he worked to capture her eyes. But she used her pensive musings to draw him away from the dancing floor and back to the mission. Perhaps he thinks he will defend her? _Some men think like that._ She hated feeling guilty for nothing. Literally an act.

 

“Thank you for dancing with my fiance... I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” Sherlock smiled at Campbell.

 

“Roger Campbell,” he replied with an offered hand.

 

Sherlock looked down at it, but did not offer his.

 

Campbell grinned back as he dropped his hand. “You just let me know when you are ready for the next one, Amelia.”

 

With a nod to them both he blended into a near group’s conversation.

 

Molly snapped her head to Sherlock. Both stared at the other for a few breaths, but he spoke first.

 

“There was a plan.”

 

She sneered, “Which you did not stick to either.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth with a knitted brow but his shoulder got bumped into by another party goer.

 

Molly watched with surprise as he looked around the area suddenly, near frantic. But to her further shock, he grabbed her by the wrist and practically dragged her to the near wall. His hand gripped her arm, pivoting her with his hand on left hip, lower than she expected, using both to push her against the wall. Just short of rough though if anyone in the room spied this action it would appear so. Her breath caught in her throat as he stepped close, enough to sense his warmth but not pressing against her as one part of her mind lept to that very image. Her eyes surely told him that as she glanced up with a dropped jaw but his smirk indicated it was not an unwelcome response

 

 _Bastard_ is all she thought.

 

“We are taking this a bit far tonight, are we not?”

 

It's his voice low and deep resonating, not Turner’s and she quivered despite herself. But there is irritation tinging its tone, and she wondered if he caught on to the game.

 

“Just playing my part, as I always do,” she said huskily.

 

“Going for a BAFTA then? Wasted effort for a party I imagine... unless you know something I don’t” his thumb slide slowly across the top of her hipbone, as if relishing the movement of the velvet fibres. His eyes slanted. She wondered if his hand knew was it was doing or if it was unconscious to even him. He wondered the same as he stopped.

 

She snagged a nervous laugh in her throat throwing her head back, “Oh darling, what could I know that the great Sher--”

 

His finger found her lips and pressed them to stop. His eyes caught hers as she looked down at that finger and then back up through a hooded stare. And they held it in silence as they too often did, both reading layers of falsity and honesty swirled into one confusion. His tightened jaw gave him away as she smiled against his finger.

 

Well, at least that mark will stand, she thought, knowing his fingers would stain red. 

 

“More than... you? How could anyone?” She finished with a half grin when he moved his hand back down.

 

“The flattery is an act but I suspect there are elements that are not,” he drawled, furrowing his brow as he searched her face. Her eyes and the lines around her mouth lied to him, hiding something he lacked the time and resources to read as the case pressed its urgency in the front of his thoughts.

 

She dropped her false glee. “Then deduce that if you can” and she slipped from his grip and walked away without as much as a glance.

 

His eyes followed her, ignoring his heart beating faster as he focused on the hip he only just held a little too tight a moment ago. They played “couple” before, but this was a high performance for a crowd that barely noticed them. _One more push forward but it is dangerous territory_ , he contemplated. With that realisation he shifted his view back to their target and to a set of officers walking nearby, seeing the time of culmination nearing.  

 

Eyes shut tight when she reached a table, and she steadied herself, gripping on its edge.

 

 _Last time, last time, last time._ She chanted like an empty mantra to herself. Her heart slowed and her breath evened for a moment. All for naught as she sensed someone behind and knew well enough who it was. She expected no aberrant actions from him this time but he shocked her once again.

 

Both hands landed on her hips, his thumbs pressing to follow the peak of bone under velvet and skin. Her spine lit up like the Christmas tree they needed to be near soon to play their part and fight. Maybe this was his the crux of his plan, she pondered. To agitate and light up nerve endings to give the argument the edge it might lack otherwise.

 

If she were to voice it, he would concur with her assessment. But with all honesty to himself, he found a new fixation. _Touch, jeopardous,_ he reminded, and yet he risked pulling her to him.

 

She pressed fast into him, closer than they ever dared before. His heart through his chest leap against top of her shoulders. His eyes strayed to her collarbone and then lower, an edge of cleavage heaving suddenly against the lace. But the cruelty of the spell the chemicals weaved through both their veins struck him. He dropped his hands and stepped back. She held a hand against the table’s edge, the absence of his frame against hers like a bracing ice bath.

 

“Time to play it to the crowd,” he whispered as he leaned down by her ear.

 

She spun around, tears seeking a path out sent a chill into his own veins. Her dark eyes wide and showing a resolve he experienced before. He braced himself, shutting his eyes for the strike but instead discovered her pressed against him once more only the front side instead. Every curve tensed against him as she put her mouth near his ear. Sensing a shiver of anger flow through her body, he waited with closed eyes not daring to meet hers.

 

Her words soft but deliberate. “You’ll get no such satisfaction from me, Sherlock Holmes. But Amelia holds no such qualms about her dear doctor. So you’ll just have to wait for it.”  

 

His own shudder as she strolled away added to his confusion.

 

An odd calm washed over her, ready to give her lines, and end the charade. As pre-arranged, the band took its break.

 

“Amelia, stop this!”

 

That voice he put on found its mark and her shoulder tightened and teeth clenched.

 

“Oh, what now?” she said in an angry whisper, pivoting on her heels to face him, perfectly placed by the Christmas tree.

 

“You seem to forget your place,” Sherlock straightened his spine, tugging the bottom edges of his coat.

 

She laughed, loud enough to draw the interest of the near dancers.

 

“My place?” her voice squeaking, incredulous at hearing those words even though scripted. “As if I were a dog at your heel, just whistle and I’m there?” she shouted much louder than she expected to. He shot her a look of confusion and censure.

 

“Amelia, please, keep your voice--”

 

“Oh hell no,” she scoffed shaking her head.

 

He rolled his eyes, sticking to the script, “And please do not turn vulgar.”

 

“I’ll give you fucking vulgar. I take care of everything for you. At your beck and call for years. My place, right?... and I am tired,” she clenched her jaw, gritting out the last words as tears threatened.

 

Sherlock’s chest suddenly ached and his next line caught in his throat. Her acting appeared extreme but was there something deeper that she pulled the motivation from? But no, perhaps she improved this much, he mused. He searched her face and all fit the mood they rehearsed to set and he proceeded with the plan.

 

He moved closer to her, a small laugh, and he blurted, “Well, you are my secretary.”

 

He nearly lost his balance as her hand struck his cheek. She disguised her telegraph of her strike so he couldn’t lessen the blow. His turn for incredulity.

 

He frantically searched her face as his pained jaw dropped. He sought wordless answers and found them.  Her brown eyes wet, and wide with fear and hurt. He read it now. He had not planned this. This is not the script. It shifted and there was no going back. He removed his glasses, placing them in his pocket, rubbing his own eyes in frustration.

 

He heard murmurings in the crowd gathered a safe distance from them.  Across the room the other preparations moved forward. But Molly lost all interest in the case, and the plan. She thought she would act through the night and just say no next time he asked. Find a new hobby. Something Sherlock never tainted. But her heart wanting to beat out of her ribcage told her it was a foolish notion. There was no escape. He wormed his way in every crack and crevice in her mind and she hated it. Big fat tears fell now, and her throat burned as she held back sobs. She prepared for him to keep to the script. It's what he did best after all, and unwise to believe otherwise. _Last time_ repeated once more. If an incurable ache to be her state, better to do it away from the source. But her own brow furrowed as she squinted at his spoken words not predetermined.

 

“You’ve always wanted more, more than I could ever give you. I am capable of only so much,” he dropped his gaze, and his tone.

 

“What is that?” she stepped forward, cocking her head under his striving to get him to look back at her.

 

She sniffed, carefully wiping tears away to keep her eye makeup in place. “What are these mysteries expectations I have placed upon you?” Her eyelids fluttered shut as she folded her arms again, speaking to the floor and then back at him. “You‘re not getting out of this, not this time.”

 

This was not longer rehearsed. No more Turner and Barnes. The crowd might catch on to her speech change, and to his. Hopefully, it appeared real enough, he thought, because it is and something akin to shame washed over him.

 

“Perhaps this needs to wait until we are home” he said, pleading ringing in his tone as he comprehended the weight of this conversation.  

 

“No, it does not. We face it now.” There is the fire and when he finally risked her glare, his eyes locked in. Might as well try it, he thought. Say what you are thinking for once.

 

“I... the expectations exist in my mind alone I fear,” he started and startled himself as his chest sunk heavily. But he pushed air past it and continued, “But I know my own radius. It does not extend to the essentials; even lesser to your yearnings... and your hopes. Those hopes with every touch, every kiss... on your cheek, it lights up like a beacon behind your eyes and I... can’t leave it alone. Why can’t I?--” he closed his eyes shut tight, searching through rooms and files and everything crumbled in his brain.

 

"A lot of that is utter bullshit but we’ll unpack that later," she scoffed. "I need to you think about why you can’t leave me alone. Despite all your phony nobility you parade around when you can’t face your own humanity, you’re just scared. But I’ve never been," With these words, his eyes popped open, staring at her intently. 

 

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” she huffed. “I’ve never been afraid of anything you could have done to me, Sh-” She clamped her mouth shut and swallowed to stop herself from saying his name

 

She blinked, resetting her mind with a deep breath, “Not since the day I met you. My voice cracked, my words rambled, my knees wobbled, sure,” she shrugged, playing with her fingers suddenly, a break in the resolve. But she dropped her hands and squared her shoulders again. “But I asked anyway, more than once. I said yes more times than is sane to your whims and asked you what you needed again. Meant it every time... Always will.”

 

That ache, that indefinable oppression hanging in his chest swelled to his throat, and he nearly choked on it as he helplessly watched her face fall into forlornness.

 

“But maybe I do have one fear after all;  so small and concentrated it sits in my stomach like a knot,” she gritted out. “That you’ll never ever let me be and never let me in; that you can’t and I can’t either. God, the years I’ve lost to _maybes._ I had the silly idea I could end this tonight, but that was--”

 

“End? But we aren't--” he asked plainly.

 

“Oh yes, we are. It’s complicated and...” she laughed sadly  “Oh so fucked up. But it is... us. We are an _us_ even if you can’t fathom the concept.”

 

He felt every counter leave his mind, and the one alert rang like sirens that anyone who was paying attention could tell their voices and the subject shifted.

 

But her tears were real, heavy and quiet. He focused on them so closely that he missed his own.

 

And he saw out the corner of his eye the rest of the plan all going down cleanly. Suspect being led away silently as the crowd watched them instead.

 

He moved closer to her and with a nod he perceived she knew the job complete. But now the real work of fixing... whatever _they_  are.

 

“I have failed, I do not know what us means even now. I would be a constant student at best... you deserve--”

 

“Did you not listen to a word I said?” Her words cracked, and she swallowed hard, folding her arms to her chest again.  

 

“Yes... but” he stammered.

 

“If you just let me, that will take care of everything, I promise.” Her voice endeavored to mask the pleading nature of the tone. Her eyes glittered and in them shone light he should not deny. But he’ll try once more.

 

“Molly I am not a man who--”

 

She shook her head and stepped up practically up against him. Head tilted back, her words carried weight and determination despite being a near whisper. “You are a man, and I need you... that’s it. I know you. I just need you to allow me, Sherlock.”

 

The crowd dispersed as she and him spoke in hushed tones to each other. Back to dancing and drinking with the spectacle over.

 

“Take my hand, Sherlock,” she asked softly, holding her hand out palm up.

 

He frowned, “That doesn’t change things.”

 

She stared at him. Hard, not letting his avert his eyes away, as if he could. Her lips curved up into a sad smile and he felt a flood of contradicting desires.

 

“Try it. Touch. We both know the chemicals, I even better, I’m the pathologist remember?” She bit her lip, knowing she risked much in pushing the issue. But her patience depleted, she was without choice. _Now or never._

 

She is right again as always, he thought, and he knew the chemicals did not require touch to throw him off. But what did he have to lose now? _Everything,_ he pondered, _but only if you do not act._

 

With this realisation, he glanced down at her hand. The tiniest of tremors evident, he looked at the muscle twitching and noted his urge to steady them.  Raising his own hand quickly, he placed it on hers, his fingertips sitting at her wrist. Her coursing pulse under her delicate skin a stark reminder of his own. He stared down at their hands, together, noting every callus as her hand moved under his.

 

She sighed raggedly through her nose and continued her instruction. “Now... How does it feel? Not that you didn’t get your fill of my hips earlier but anyway…”

 

Her eyebrow raised and there’s that gulp she always foresees. Ever since that first Christmas before he apologised and his lips brushed her cheek. Always before and after anything serious said, she looked to his throat for the sign. She wondered if one day he will say the words he first thought instead of swallowing them.

 

But he maintained his silence, and she prodded once more, “What do you feel?”

 

“What are you--” he started, but she cut him off before he could begin his stalling.

 

“Just tell me and don’t you dare lie to me... Or yourself” Her shoulders squared, conviction manifested in her tightened jaw. He saw it all, read it logically as a clue stapled to his wall. Something about this Molly he knew he loved, but she scared him to the core. No escape no way out without hurting them both. So he tried a bit of half honesty.

 

“Your hand is warm from being at your side, the blood pooling,  but now travelling back and evening out.... Your fingertips, small, your hand small under mine but...I like it. I don’t want to let it go.” He winced internally as he rambled out thoughts he surmised she wanted to hear. It was true, he did not want to let her go, but he also felt equally compelled to drop her hand and advise her of how foolish...no...he couldn’t do that now.

 

“Don’t lie,” she gritted through her teeth. Endurance reaching its limits and he licked his lips, his mouth turning to cotton as she exposed more layers to his facade.

 

“I am not as such--” he laughed nervously, but her eyes spanned wide with fire, daring him to attempt it. The result of a continued lie frightened him now more than facing whatever emotion she was drawing out of him like blood. He sighed, “Fine. Yes, I want to let go, and run out that door. This will only hurt you. I can only hurt you.”

 

 _That noble bullshit once again,_ she thought and shut her eyes for a moment to ponder how to circumvent it.

 

She opened them again, capturing his and holding their gaze. She wanted more than anything for him to get it through the fog of his mind that hurting her is the least of his worries. She completed that thought.

 

“Why do you care now if you hurt me? You’ve done it for years. Why stop now?”

 

Her logic ironclad; not a chink in the armour she built on it for years. He tested the metal too many times. _Well, perhaps_ a bit  _more to make a new plan,_ he mused.

 

“Because I can’t stand it anymore,” he gulped, running a second train of thought under the obvious.

 

With one last swift forward, she pulled his hand down, lacing her fingers with his. With each breath, her chest pushed into his and nearness was too much for her to look him in the eyes.  

 

“Then lean into it. Hurt me if you must but let me have enough to make it worth it for once,” she said huskily, sliding her other hand up his other arm gently.

 

“Or maybe I am afraid you’ll hurt me?” An honest statement though he suspected she might miss it and take it for a distraction.

 

“Stalling won’t help you, Sherlock Holmes” she said with the slightest of smiles and his heart leapt at the shift. He deduced correctly her reaction but the change of mood a bonus delight.

 

“It's worked for years,” he risked with a smirk.

 

Unsure how the emotions of the moment repositioned but her chest felt lighter.

 

She smiled wider, “Has it?”

 

“Fair point,” he bit his lip, and both realised they were staring at the lips of the other.

 

“Kiss me.” She asked it suddenly, no, there was a command to it and he wasn’t ready for the game to end yet. His hand landed at her hips again instinctively.

 

“Here? There’s no mistletoe.” He turned his eyes up.

 

She slid her hand up his side and rib cage, patting his chest and resting it there, his heart beating betraying his calm face. She offered lightly, “Then find some if you want to be pedantic about it.”

 

Leaning down to her ear, he paused just enough for effect and then said in a whisper. “It's romantic I thought.”

 

She laughed softly with a small shiver, “I thought you didn't know how.”

 

He matched her laugh. “Don’t mock me even as much as I deserve it. Look around the room if you want that kiss.”

 

He shifted back from her. He captured and held her gaze as he lifted her hand to his lips. He slipped his hand out of hers but his eyes unbroken in their hold on hers. He walked away unhurriedly, and she strolled the other way. Music drifted slowly around the room and they matched its pace. They both travelled further apart, moving past other couples like ghosts. A dance, the last of it kind for them. They exchanged a long glace before she lost him in the crowd.  She craned her neck to find his form. That one fear sat bigger than she wanted. That he would slip out the door after everything said. But she let her hopes stand as she spied him far away from that dreaded escape for him.

 

She shot him a sly grin when he glanced back at her, and then she lost him once more.

 

She stepped quickly to the edge of the crowd near a marble column and looking to her right she missed him on her left until his arm slid around her waist. He grabbed her hip with one hand and pulled her into him tight. His other arm joined in the embrace.

 

His eyes strayed to her lips, and he murmured “So about that...”

 

He shifted his stare to right above them and she looked up with him. Above them tied to the column was an elaborate arrangement of holly, ferns and mistletoe. He dropped his eyes to her face. Serenity and anticipation coloured it beautifully, but he asked one more time.

 

“Last chance, Molly Hooper. Say the word and I will release you.”

 

His fingers massaging her hip, digging into the velvet, told her otherwise.

 

“What did I say about lying?”

 

With that said she looked back down at him, not holding his gaze but searching his face with an upturned chin.

 

With a deep breath he offered the final declaration, “Then our fates are sealed with--”

 

Her lips crashed into his cutting off the words.

 

The first real kiss; exciting if not a bit awkward and sloppy. But both quick students, and it reached a point of perfection rapidly. The blood in his veins racing, he knew this sensation. When he finds the last clue and the overwhelming exquisite rush over his brain; a completion of a work. This kiss a completion. She regretted not silencing him with a kiss before. He carried a similar thought process on his own.

 

When they came up for oxygen, the awareness of the surrounding room invaded their senses again.

 

“Everything changes now I assume?” Sherlock questioned as he leaned his head back enough to delight in the flush of her cheeks, cognisant he was the cause. He stroked the cheek he kissed before, tracing the line of her cheekbones and back down her jaw.

 

“It doesn’t change anything; we just add to what we already started,” she smiled warmly, and she bit her lip as his eyes lit up with realisation.

 

Astounded at his own obtuseness and fortune, he stared blankly Here stood a woman who loved him in his worst states and never allowed him to stay there. He only needed to let her have the best too.

 

“I am sorry. Forgive me,” he blurted out, and her brow creased in worry and fear. _Oh, please no_ she begged silently in her mind.

 

He sensed her stiffen in his arms, realising too late that she could misinterpret these words.

 

He sought her eyes, and she held his stare in mixed anticipation. “Molly, forgive me for taking so long to kiss you and tell you I love you, properly. It is our loss. But I will promise this day forward to let you love me. This is me, leaning in as you requested.” His lips curled up reticently, waiting for her response.

 

She felt her heart ease in her chest again and she wrapped her arms around him tightly as her head laid against him. “Thank you” was all she managed in a tight voice, emotion choking back anymore words.

 

He gently kissed the top of her head, soaking in the embrace. “Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” With that said he pulled her face back up his for another long and slow kiss, both ignoring everything else with relish.

 


End file.
